


Ignition Point

by tenaya



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Person of Interest (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: A manly man kissing another manly man, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - SCP Foundation (Fusion), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Brief mention of child abuse and neglect, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepyfest, Crossover, Derogatory Language, M/M, Matt Westwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-01 08:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: When Mick Rory disappears from prison the day before Leonard Snart was going to break him out, Len knows something was very, very wrong.When a career criminal comes to Detective Joss Carter and accuses her and the rest of the Criminal Justice system of ‘disappearing’ convicted felons, it gives her pause as she has recently become aware that the world was much more mysterious and dangerous than she’d previously known.What happens next will change their lives forever.





	1. Smolderings In The Diner

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take Care of the Unseen Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156940) by [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida). 



> Inspired by [Unseen Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156940?view_full_work=true) By Zaniida. I thank her for the invitation, the intense beta work and for explaining the SCF Foundation universe to me.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=3478avd)

Ignition Point by Tenaya

A bitter winter wind swirled in around Detective Joss Carter as she entered the cafe across from the precinct. She sorely needed the heat from a cup of coffee, almost as much as she needed the caffeine. Almost.

“Eggs, bacon, toast and a laaarge cup of coffee to go, Kazi,” she called out as she claimed a booth by the window. She always ordered her coffee to go in the mornings; being a detective in a city like New York meant she was too busy to linger over breakfast and a to-go cup meant she could finish it at her desk in the precinct. 

Not ten seconds later, a man with a buzz cut and dressed in a black leather jacket slid into the seat across from her. She sat back, surprised.

“Leonard Snart. Pretty bold to come in here.” Snart’s father was a vicious domestic abuser who got away with terrorizing his wife and children because he was a cop; his buddies on the force looking the other way because of the Code. The same age as Joss, Snart had spent his life learning how to pick locks and break out of prison. He was tough, exceptionally smart and proved to be impossible to keep locked up for long. “Whaddaya want?”

Snart smiled and dipped his head, ever polite. “Detective,” he greeted. “Just a little information.”

“This ought to be good. I know something you don’t know?” she said, half-teasing.

The waitress breezed by stopping long enough to place a coffee to go in front of each of them. “Didya know you both take your coffee the same way?” she said chirpily, way too happy for this hour of the morning. “You guys have coffee chemistry! Do you work together?”

“You could say that,” Snart said with a smile. Kazi paused a moment to smile back.

“You’re a regular?” Carter asked, scandalized. “Across from the precinct?” 

Snart simply tilted his head in acknowledgement, but when the waitress left, the smile dropped. “I stopped by Iron Heights to visit Mick. Funny thing. He wasn’t there.”

Mick Rory was his long time partner and Carter had helped send him to prison. Again. Not that either Snart or Rory ever finished their sentences. Didn’t matter what wing they were in, they always escaped.

“Then he was transferred. Go bother someone else.”

“Office records state he volunteered for a transfer. He wouldn’t do that. He’s my partner and knew I was coming for him.” He leaned forward. “So who’s snatching prisoners against their will—prisoners that are never heard from again.”

She leaned back. “There is a voluntary program—”

“Already said. Mick wouldn’t have gone willingly.” His head tilted again as he considered her. “Is this some ‘justice’ department ops you’re all in on? Getting rid of people that are an embarrassment for you? Taking ’em out where you can dispose of the bodies better?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she objected, offended by the suggestion. “I only know what the rumors are: the Foundation asks for volunteers and their sentences are commuted to time served.”

He studied her as he sipped his coffee. “Something’s not right. If I find out something’s happened to Mick, I’m coming back for those that are in on it.” He stood up, all tall, lean and wearing his bike leathers like he was a fashion model. “Detective,” he said, taking his coffee with him as he left out the back door.

She didn’t turn to watch him leave; no point in appreciating the view if it was someone like Snart, a career criminal who was nothing but trouble. She sighed and shook her head as she realized Snart hadn’t left any money to pay for his coffee.

But as she sipped her coffee, she considered what she knew of the Foundation. She’d never liked the idea of commuting sentences of convicted killers. The Justice system had put them in prison for a reason.

She'd looked into it once. It seemed too good to be true: a program that gave hardened criminals a chance to reduce their sentences, with a recidivism rate of zero? But her prison contacts could only tell her that it was a volunteer program, and that, in stark contrast to every other rehabilitation program available, those who volunteered for this one never made it back into the system.

At the time, she'd found it suspicious, but she'd been too busy to look into it further. Now, having worked with John Reese and Harold Finch for a while, having gotten an eye into the hidden world they dealt with on a daily basis, she found that her suspicions were sharper: What exactly had the program been doing to ensure a 0% recidivism rate?

Besides, Snart was right: Rory had no reason to try for a lighter sentence when he knew Snart was coming for him; those two hadn't served a full term since the first time they'd been put away. They were a bonded pair, people like them were the reason for the phrase, “as thick as thieves.”

She sighed. Her job was to put criminals in custody, not worry about them after they’d been sentenced. But the more she thought about it, the more she knew this probably was something Finch should know about if he didn’t already because Rory definitely wouldn't have left, not when he knew that Snart was coming for him.

Kazi brought her breakfast and carefully placed the heavy, hot ceramic plate in front of her. 

“Can you find them all?” Kazi called out cheerfully to the patrons seated at the counter as she bounced passed them and back into the kitchen.

What the hell did that mean? It was too early for all this. Was it her or was the world just getting crazier every day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks to [REDACTED] for the beta editing and guidance.
> 
> And thank you, my good friend K for making the art for me. 
> 
> I admit this crossover is an odd mix, but once I imagined the characters together I really wanted to see how they would interact. Hopefully for the fans who’ve only seen one of the shows, the other characters will still make sense. And hopefully there will be readers who watched both shows. Enjoy!
> 
> Central City would have already had the explosion at Star Labs, but the Flash isn’t around. Apparently Len and Mick moved their operations to New York City, where this story takes place.
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think.


	2. On Ice At The Facility

Len pushed his janitor’s cap down to cover his eyes a little better, and pushed his ‘Sterilization and Removal’ cart as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself. He knew Mick was up ahead and in grave danger. He knew it. His hunches never lied.

It’d taken him two days of stealth, disabling alarms and using every trick he knew for to carefully, slowly infiltrate this mysterious complex and their crazily intense security. He’d targeted the IT area first to locate Mick and found out he was scheduled to ‘interview’ Anomalous Entity 308-Zeta-Delta at 2pm and that his cell was cleared for reassignment. It was 1:45 now. 

Voices echoed down the hallway; the loudest one had an English accent.

“I can’t believe they’d let a wanker like you into the program. A loser who’d torch his family? You have a To-Do List for who you’re going to burn when you get released, Sparky?” 

“Shaddup, Westwood.”

Leonard Snart froze. That was the voice he was searching for. He lifted his eyes and saw Mick and a second man shuffle across the hallway at an intersection thirty feet in front of him, escorted by two armed guards. Only Mick was shackled by his wrists and ankles, but both were shirtless, the tops of their orange jumpsuits hanging about their waists. Mick’s burn scars on his arms and back shined an angry pink in the fluorescent lights, while the other man’s arm had a large Arabic tattoo.

“Tonight I’ll be dining in a fine restaurant while you’ll still be beating your meat in the woods, though knowing you, you’ll just be standing there, flicking your Bic instead, mate.”

“Fuckin’ Limey,” Mick shot back. “Don’t you ever shut up?”

“In here,” one of the guards ordered as Len heard the metallic sounds of a door being opened. 

“Hey. You’re early,” a male voice called from behind Len. 

Len paused and glanced back at the open door he’d just passed. A man gestured him over. The man was tall and muscular, and was packing a sidearm on his hip.

“Might as well wait in here; you’ll get to see what you’ll be cleaning up at least,” he said, grinning. “Leave the cart in the hall.” 

“Thanks,” Len muttered, parking the cart and slipping past the man. There were three other men inside, staring through a observation window into another room. Len put his back to the wall and watched, anxiety spiking as Mick and Westwood were pushed inside, the door slamming shut and locking behind them.

The metal crate in the corner of the room had a large, thick cushion in it, covered with rags. The only other furnishing was a bolted down metal table. After an uneasy pause, the silence was broke by a loud buzzer and the door on the crate swung open. 

A small girl separated herself from the rags and crawled out. Her grey skin hung loosely on her bony frame while her pale white hair lay in dirty, limp strands over her knobby shoulders. With obvious effort, she tiredly pulled herself up onto the table and sat there, exhausted. 

Len had no idea what was going to happen but his stomach churned at the wrongness of it all. A large covered drain in the floor kept drawing his attention as the guard’s words about cleaning up echoed in his mind.

“What the hell?” Westwood said, stepping forward to get a closer look at her, frowning in distaste at the shapeless, overly large garment that barely covered her body.

The girl lifted her face, revealing eyes that were completely black and as shiny as flecks of obsidian. She held out a small quavering hand, the movement causing the too large neckline she was wearing to slip off one shoulder and expose part of a small breast.

“What do you want?” she whispered hoarsely.

Westwood turned to the window, but as he did not look at anyone in particular, Len guessed it was mirrored on his side. “How about some decent gear for this child, you fucking pervs!” he called out, disgustedly.

The men in the observation room leaned closer to the window. One of them double-checked the camera on a tripod next to him.

“I will give you what you hunger for,” she whispered, her voice now eager, leaning towards Westwood.

“The bird’s hungry, too,” Westwood shouted, angrily. “What the hell are you fuckers doing here?” he shouted as he stepped towards the window, hands balling into fists. “Come down here and I’ll teach you what happens to arsholes who torture little girls!” 

“What do you want?” she repeated, her voice excited, more animated as leaned towards Westwood. “What do you hunger for?”

Bouncing agitatedly on the balls of his feet, he turned back to the girl. “Oy! You want to know what I want? You can start by giving me my freedom sooner than later, you stupid fucking bimbo. I don’t want to stay in this pit another minute longer.” 

“Done!” she cried, and flung herself on him, wrapping her arms and legs around his torso, her mouth against his neck. 

Surprised, he stumbled backwards, his hands automatically going around the girl’s waist as he swayed from side to side as he fought to force her away. “Stop. Stop it. Argh, stop!” he said, his voice escalating in pitch and becoming pained. 

Then he screamed and it was the scream of a man who knew he was dying; the mortal fear and the sheer power of it made all the hair on Len stand on end. 

Alarmed, he pushed off the wall and inched towards the door, noting from the corner of his eye that Mick was stepping away from the distressed man. “Good, good!” he thought.

“Theta-405 isn’t assisting,” the camera man noted dispassionately, like it was a point that needed to be part of the record.

The armed man armed next to him shrugged. “So he lives another ten minutes. It won’t affect the test.” His eyes flicked over to Len as he noted Len’s movement and he frowned at him.

Another scream brought everyone’s attention back to the chamber as Westwood staggered back a few steps, then ran blindly forward until he crashed the girl and himself against the wall, his screams now agonized and high-pitched. He turned and ran past Mick, who backed further out of his way, his eyes wide with shock.

“Interesting,” said the camera man. “She’s choosing to feed on this man’s emotions rather than his blood. Our data indicates the next felon has an even higher emotional volatility. I don’t believe she’s feed psychically back to back before. This should prove interesting.”

“Will the containment chamber hold her?” asked the armed man. 

“It should,” a third man answered absently as he watched Westwood collapsed to his knees, falling backwards, his eyes open and lifeless. 

Still crouched by Westwood’s body, her hands on his unbreathing chest, the girl looked up, her intense focus that of a predator. Her shift fit better now that her skin was toned, her flesh fuller. No longer grey, her skin was covered with the swirling multicolor sheen, akin to the surface of an oil slick. Her gaze was transfixed on Mick. “What do you hunger for?”

Mick glanced at Westwood’s dead but unbloodied body, then glared at the observation window before his focus zeroed onto the girl. “Fuck this. To watch the world burn,” he growled. “Can you give me that?”

Not waiting for the answer, Len slipped out the door, grabbed a mop from his cart and raced for the door to Mick’s chamber. He swung the pole hard, smacking the guard’s head and without pausing, slid to his knees and grabbed the keycard from a lanyard around the guard’s neck. Scrambling to his feet, he slid the card through the reader and the lock disengaged. He rushed inside, pulling the door closed behind him, shoving the metal length of the mop through the gap in the door handle to wedge the door shut. 

“Stop!” he shouted as he turned, but he was already too late. 

The girl was cradling each of Mick’s hands in her own, whispering “so much anger” over and over. The solid sheet of scars that covered his arms and back was glowing as if they were made of embers; Mick groaned in pain, his muscles bulging with tension.

“No!” Len protested as he fell to his knees beside her. His hands hovered over her arm as he resisted pulling her away from Mick, the guard’s words echoing in his head that to interfere would be fatal to him, too. “Don’t take him from me,” his voice harsh and desperate.

She glanced at him, her black eyes void of any discernible expression. “You have an anger to match his, I think. For what do you hunger?”

His eyes sought out Mick’s and he saw the pain his friend was in — the man who’d had his back for nearly thirty years. Mick soundlessly mouthed the words, “Leave me.” 

Len tilted his head in disbelief. Mick was always his worst enemy. Glaring at the girl, he willed her to obey him. “Mick,” he ordered. “I want Mick alive and undamaged.”

She closed her eyes and lifted her face like she was seeking a scent on the wind. “Yes, I can see where you’d want your Mick. There is anger but also more — for you.” She tilted her head as she studied Len. “It’s too late. I can not reverse what he has asked for, what I have given him.”

“But that’s what I want.” He held firm. He had to get her to change her mind and his mind raced to find an angle. What could he offer her, a being held prisoner, abused and experimented on, with no hope for escape?

“Ask for something else. For what do you hunger?”

Len knew what it was like to be trapped and at the mercy of someone who had none. To face what seemed endless at the time: his father’s abuse of not only him, but his sister, too. The torture of watching her hurt when he failed to shield her from the rages, the violence.

“For the innocent to be freed from those who torment them. Release Mick and I will do all I can to free you from this place.”

She paused, then gasped as if taking her first breath. Frantically she held out her hand to Len. “Yes! A deal! I cannot take back what I’ve already done to your Mick but I can make it so you can give him balance — and a weapon to free others. Take my hand if your heart be true, for this will change you, too,” her voice singsonged like she was quoting from an ancient oath, and maybe she was. 

He didn’t hesitate. He knew she hungered to be free, that she would be unable to throw away a chance for freedom. The exact nature of the deal was a mystery, but if it would leave both Mick and himself alive at the end, the rest would work itself out.

Seeking out Mick’s gaze, he grinned at the anger there—but, really, his partner should have know Len would steal him away from death if he had the chance. 

He clasped the girl’s hand. A frost so cold as to feel blazing hot shot up his hand into his arm, and he groaned as ice flowed through him. It was painful, but Len could handle pain — especially if it meant saving Mick. He clung to his victory even as his body was gripped in agony.


	3. Chilling In The Basement

Movement from a basement window caught Carter’s eye and she froze. Reese, in his usual cryptic style, had told her she was needed on this street, that the Foundation agents were hunting someone she knew. He then passed her a card from Finch that had an address she was to evacuate the hunted to when she found them.

She still had no idea who she was looking for, but Reese and Finch’s mysterious hints had always paid off. Under the guise of checking her wristwatch, she made sure she was alone on the street, then stepped over a patch of snow to carefully climb down the stairs to the basement door, finding it slightly ajar. She put her back against the wall and took a quick peek through the opening but only saw darkness.

Incredibly, the air wafting out from the basement was even colder than the predawn air around her; it stung her cheeks and frosted her breath. With one hand on her gun, she pushed the door further open and announced, “Police. I’m coming inside. Show yourself.” She waited a few moments, then carefully entered, quickly sidestepping out of the doorway.

There was a slight scuffing to her right and a familiar voice drawled, “Mick. Some light, if it’s handy, please.”

From the depths of the room, a man snorted then a deep voice said, “A fistful, just ‘cause you asked nicely.” 

A red flame danced into being, illuminating the details of the room. It wasn’t a candle, but a naked ball of fire, dancing in the palm of Mick Rory as he lounged comfortably in a cheap, metal folding chair. Despite the casual posture, his anger was palpable. That wasn’t unusual but it seemed particularly malignant and focused on her. 

“Detective,” he growled, and the simple word was definitely a challenge. Despite the freezing room, he was shirtless; his skin gave off a faint reddish glow, shining even brighter through his burn scars. Lord knows where he’d acquired the heavy canvas trousers that were favored by firemen.

Snart stepped out of the shadows, drawing her gaze. Her eyes widened to see that the entire room was coated in ice, the sharp crystals arranged like row upon row of hungry teeth. Light from the flame caught in each crystal, recreating the flickering blaze hundreds of times about her. Now that she could see Snart, she noticed a rime of ice crystals lying like diamond dust in his short hair. 

“I found Mick. He’s different now. So am I. I told you I’d be back if something had happened to him.”

Mick passed his other hand over the flame and now he cupped two balls of fire. He leaned forward, smiling at her and it was a hard not to take it as a threat.

She glanced back at Snart. He was the smarter of the two and had always been the leader. Challenging the police was a game for Snart, and she in turn had challenged him — specifically to not kill during his thieving adventures. He made a show of humoring her but she knew he had incorporated it into the code he followed. Rory was trying to rattle her, but she kept her attention on Snart. “You responsible for all this frosty art, Snart?” she asked drily. Neither of these men had been powered before this. 

He tilted his head and smiled. “It’s useful in helping Mick keep his cool, though I’d say he has every right to be hot under the collar,” he said, walking closer. “What with being experimented on—”

“They kill every prisoner they take,” Rory interrupted. “Did you know that? You been catching thieves and sending them to their deaths?” he spat angrily. “Because you don’t seem too surprised by all this!” He thrust his arms straight in front of him and his rage turned the balls of fire into tall columns of flame. They flared for a few moments then retreated to the level they were before.

“Seems hypocritical, what with you challenging me not kill during my jobs,” Snart said, his tone cooler but no less dangerous.

Three years ago, she might have been startled, or horrified, even terrified at the thought of humans with supernatural powers— but working with Finch had introduced her to a whole new facet of the world around her, the hidden side that most people never encountered. By now, she’d learned to take anomalies in stride.

“I don’t know anything about that. Are you saying all the felons that volunteered—”

“Not volunteered,” Snart corrected.

“—that they’re all dead?”

Snart lowered his head to fix her with his deadliest stare, daring her to deny it.

She sighed, causing a puff of fog to escape her. What could she do about this? She wasn’t going to waste time denying complicity because that’s what the guilty always did; for these two, a protest of innocence would probably seal her fate. And the fact that they hadn’t already tried to kill her — and were instead asking for an explanation — must mean they still trusted her somewhat. 

Or were just fishing for more information about what they were up against before they killed her.

First things first. “Look, what can I do for you now? You know you’re being hunted by the people you escaped from, right?”

“They’re hot on our trail. They catch us, they mean to kill us.”

“Or fry trying,” Rory added with a crooked grin.

She couldn’t help her snort of amusement. Maybe they were trying to kill her, but with bad puns instead of bullets. Nevertheless, she stayed on point. “So you need a safe place, away from pursuit.”

“Only if you need to avoid a high death count.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “That’d be nice. Let’s try for that, shall we? Look, I gotta lead on a place that’s what you need. Not too far from here—about a half a mile.”

Snart glanced at Rory. “What do you say, Mick?” 

Rory grunted and stood up, his thick muscles rippling as he clapped his hands together, causing the balls of fire to extinguish. Now the only light in the room was from the glow of his skin. He held out his hand to Snart. “No future staying here, boss.”

Snart sauntered over and clasped his hand. “Then let’s get ready for travel.” He pulled Rory into an embrace and kissed him. There was a hiss of steam as Rory wrapped his arms around Snart, the glow fading from Rory’s skin, leaving them in blackness.

Carter was glad of the darkness so her surprise went unnoticed. They’d always referred to each other as ‘partner,’ but somehow she’d never picked up on its full meaning for them. That certainly explained why they had been together for decades — and why Snart had been so sure Mick would not have left. 

When a full minute had passed, she felt she had to say something. “We can’t leave until you boys are done playing grabass, you know.”

After a moment, there was the scuff of footsteps as they parted. “Well then,” Snart said, clearing his throat and sounding pleased. “Mick, better put on your shirt. He’s so hot he kept burning them up, you know,” he said smugly to Carter. There was a rustle of movement and then Snart added, “We’re ready now, Detective. Lead the way.”


	4. Bonfires At The Brownstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=vphpgl)   
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This is a dog-leg stoop. It is not a form of architecture most folks know. Seeing this will allow you to better visualize the action.

The sky had begun to lighten, easing into a new day. The few people they passed on the street were bundled against the cold and walking briskly to their jobs. When they turned the corner to the address Joss had memorized, she stopped dead with surprise. While the right side of the block had over a dozen stoops leading up to their brownstones, the left side was bare of any entryways and the address she had was for the left side.

“Huh,” she stated. “Just a minute.” She pulled out the card from her coat pocket. Yeah, the address was as she remembered. Now what was she going to do? She grimaced and raised her head, mentally preparing to explain this to Snart when her eyes were caught by a massive stone dog-leg stoop with two entrances in the middle of the block. On the left. Where it had been empty before. With a pair of gas street lights flickering on either side of the first landing. 

“Did you, was that…?” she stuttered, her voice trailing off in confusion.

“We ain’t got all day, Carter. What’s the problem?” Snart shot an uneasy glance over his shoulder. “We’re sitting ducks.”

Rory, now wearing canvas trousers and a tight Henley, shouldered past her at a brisk pace. “This the place?”

She hurried after him. “Yeah.”

Rory was already taking the stairs two at a time when a man popped up from behind the bannister and fired a taser at him, the barbs sparking on his chest through his shirt. 

But Rory didn’t go down. He fixed a stare that was full of fury and promised murder. Muscles quaking as he fought the current coursing through his body, he staggered one step forward and wrapped his fists around the wires. With an angry roar, his arms shuddering with power, a ball of intense heat blazed back along the wires to engulf his attacker. 

As the man screamed and fell back out of sight, gun fire came from across the street, exploding chips of stone between Joss and Snart as they dodged up the stairs.

Snart stumbled and fell heavily against the stone balustrade, his fingers scrambling to reach a tranquilizing dart that was sticking out of the back of his shoulder. 

Joss shoved Snart down and plucked the dart out, tossing it aside. Snart fell awkwardly and stared up at her slightly dazed. Another bullet whizzed by so close that it tugged her hair. Snart blinked at the movement then dragged her down beside him. Shaking his head to clear it, he shoved himself down the stairs and half slid, half fell to where he could take a quick peek at the shooter. His grin as he glanced at Joss was wicked and eager. 

“Watch this,” he drawled, his voice slightly slurred. He slapped his hands on the stone and a sheet of ice rapidly grew under both palms. Thick and milky white, the ice grew quickly, flowing down the steps and towards the street. 

Hearing a shout of alarm, she risked a quick look at the street. The ice had flowed around the shooter’s shoes and trapped him in the middle of the street, his arms windmilling to maintain his balance. He still had his gun, though.

Jumping to her feet, she aimed her gun and ordered, “Toss the gun away! Now!” He had been shooting at her and you bet your ass she felt threatened. She had no problem shooting this guy if he didn’t drop the gun.

Her face must have made plain her commitment because he bent slightly and tossed the gun a few feet away. It was close enough that he’d have been able to reach it but it was quickly submerged in a layer of thick ice. 

“Damn. Nice one, Snart,” she said nodding her head approvingly at the thief as he leaned on the parapet, enjoying what he had done. 

Rory stepped between them. “We still going in here? ‘Cause there are reinforcements on the way,” he said, nodding towards the end of the street where two more men in dark suits were running towards them.

She sighed. “It’s the closest cover.” She stood up. ‘You gonna be able to make it, Snart?”

He wobbled as he pushed himself up with one hand, still leaning on one elbow. “Yeah, gimme a—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Rory interrupted, grabbing Snart’s arm and ducked under it until he was supporting Snart. He turned and pretty much dragged his partner up the steps so quickly Joss had to hurry to keep up. 

They burst through the unlocked door and Joss paused to lock the door behind her, sliding closed three old-fashioned iron bolts that looked over one hundred years old.

Rory hustled passed the ornate staircase that curved up to the second floor, dragging his partner down a hallway that seemed to head to the service areas. 

Joss stood in the foyer, uncertain. “Hello? Anybody home?” she called out. “NYPD! Don’t be alarmed!” Relieved there was no answer, she called after the men. “Hey, shouldn’t we go up the stairs? More places to take cover up there.”

“Go ahead but it’s going suck when I torch this dump.”

“Rory! No arson!”

“Can’t hear you,” he grunted as he disappeared into a room to the left, Snart’s feet gamely trying to find traction.

“Hey!” she snapped, hurrying after them. But as she drew even with where Rory disappeared, all that was in front of her was wallpapered wall. Pretty horrible wallpaper actually; the pattern went fuzzy in her peripheral vision and made her eyes ache.

“Rory! Where are you?”

“Here.” His voice came from further down the hall and behind her.

Shaking her head, she strode towards the only door on the right. Had she accidentally touched the business end of the dart she pulled out of Snart? She didn’t think so but she was getting a throbbing pain across her forehead.

She crossed the threshold and blinked in surprise. Snart was sprawled across an overstuffed leather loveseat while Rory stood guard beside him, hands on hips, scowling at her. Around them was a pitched roof loft with heavy oak exposed beams. A series of dormer windows peppered the slanted ceilings, bright blue skies to the right and noontime sun streaming in from the left. Through the window opposite her, she saw the top of a tree, its branches heavy with summer leaves. Full-sized, ornate mirrors were freestanding between the dormers.

“Sweet Jesus protect us,” she whispered. “What is going on?” She glanced behind her and stepped back in shock. The door she’d just entered was gone; a timbered wall with ancient paint peeling from the plaster was the only thing behind her now.

Whirling around, she rounded on Rory. “Explain this!”

“You brought us here. You explain it,” he snapped back.

Snart, still fighting the tranquilizer, pushed himself upright, his eyes a little more focused then they had been. “Carter, who gave you this address?”

“I did, Mr. Snart.”

The all-too-familiar voice came from a mirror to her right; Carter pivoted, only to be brought up short by the sight of Finch — impeccably dressed as always — on the other side of the mirror. Except it couldn’t be a mirror, could it? Rather than reflecting the room they were in, it was like a window into another place entirely: Finch, in front of a massive bookcase filled with all manner of ornate tomes. 

“Detective, I had hoped to keep your knowledge of the anomalies to a minimum, for your own safety, but it does appear that that is no longer an option. This house is an anomalous location that had escaped detection by the Foundation until today. They will need special equipment to be able to enter, which does buy us a little time, but you’re still in grave danger — all of you.”

“Not news. Explain anomalies, and who are you, anyway?” Snart drawled, his accent always more pronounced when he was being threatening. He leaned forward with his hands braced on his knees. 

“My name is unimportant, Mr. Snart. You and your friend are being pursued by the most powerful agency in the world; it’s little short of a miracle that you were able to escape from them at all. Normally, we’d find a way for you to hide your powers and start a new life elsewhere, but it appears that, in your case, it’s unlikely that you would be able, or willing, to keep from showing up on their radar again.”

“A lot of jaw flapping but I don’t hear anything that’s helpful,” Rory growled. “What is this anyway?” Rory said, gesturing to the mirror. “A TV?”

“No. The mirrors you see before you are portals to...well, different dimensions, I suppose that's the best way to think of it. I cannot guarantee your safety, but they will almost certainly be better for you than staying here.”

Snart inclined his head. “How convenient since you are responsible for trapping us here. Why should we trust you?”

A mirror next to Finch’s shimmered and a dark-haired man walked into view. “You shouldn’t, Snart. Many of these portals are a one-way trip.”

Snart smiled but it was void of warmth. “Scudder. I’m less inclined to trust you than him.” The suit Scudder wore was almost dapper, but the gelled hair, beard and smarmy grin still revealed him for what he was— a thug in a suit. 

Joss knew Sam Scudder used to be in Snart’s crew but had been missing for a few years. She’d wondered about how bad the fallout between them had been, and if Snart had ignored her challenge not to kill. She thought he might if he had been betrayed by Scudder; Scudder was just ambitious enough to think that was a good option and foolishly confident enough to think it was a good idea to take on Snart.

“I’m a metahuman now. They call me the Mirror Master and I can travel through reflective surfaces, entering and exiting from any of them.

“How nice for you,” he said sarcastically.

“I want back in,” Scudder said, scowling, getting to the point.

“Why?” Snart snapped.

“Because I know what the suit over there isn’t telling you. There’s a large powerful organization out there that want to capture or kill all metas. I’ve been spying on them and spotted you and Rory in their freak prison; watched you break out. If we work together, we can hit back and hit them hard.”

Snart pushed himself upright with the help of a steadying hand on the arm of the couch, then strolled over to stand in front of the mirror, stopping well clear of it. “And just like that, bygones are bygones?”

Scudder lifted his chin challengingly. “Yeah.”

“You gonna follow orders this time?” Snart sneered, leaning closer.

Scudder smiled. “Until we win, then all bets are off.” Then he lunged out of the mirror and yanked Snart back into it with him.

“HEY!” Rory yelled and raced to the mirror. Slapping his hands on the glass, fingers splayed; he watched wild-eyed, his muscles bunched and taut as the two men wrestled. 

Joss carefully moved next to Rory to get a better view. She kept her hand on her gun but she had no idea how to deal with a fight inside a mirror.

The fight wasn’t much of one. Snart tried to punch and force the other man beneath him, but his efforts were weak and sloppy. Scudder easily pinned Snart and sat on him, grinning.

“You’re getting old, Snart. Lucky for you I meant what I said,” he said smugly.

Rory whapped the mirror with his fists. “Let him up!” Rory threatened.

“Or wha—”

“Scudder,” Snart said, tiredly. “If you want our help, don’t antagonize him.”

Heaving a sigh, Scudder rolled his eyes, but he did get up, offering Snart an assist. Strutting closer to the mirror interface, he held out his hand to Rory. 

Squinting with suspicion, Rory glanced between Scudder’s hand and his eyes, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. Snart was on the other side. With hardly a hesitation, Rory grabbed his hand and leaped into the mirror. But instead of letting go, he gripped it iron hard and brought it up to chest level. 

“You’re not the only one with powers now,” he growled, leaning into Scudder’s space and staring him down. The thick ridges between the scars visible on his forearms began to glow like embers. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Scudder shouted, at first trying to jerk his hand free then he violently shoved Rory away. Shaking his hand like it stung, he peered incredulously at the reddened skin of his palm. “What the hell?!”

“Just a taste of it, asshole.” 

Snart pushed in between them, hands on their chests. “Now, now, boys. No need to get hot under the collar,” he said, smoothly claiming the leadership role. When they each took a step back, he smiled, pleased with the response. Joss had to admit, he was a natural leader. 

Pivoting to face Rory, a small, genuine smile gracing his face, he held out his hand, palm upwards. Rory clasped it, his grin eager for mayhem. This time Joss could see the steam waft up from their hands as the two men stared into each other’s eyes.

As the glow disappeared, Scudder shook his head. “I’d forgotten about the puns and the —” his finger toggled between the two of them. “Nevermind,” he said, cutting himself off. “We need to leave. Now. These anomalies can become a trap.” He held out his hand to Snart. “Keep hold of Rory and I’ll pull you both through to our destination.”

“Hey, Carter,” Snart called out. “A word of advice: don’t try to stop us when we come back.” As soon as he took Scudder’s hand, their images disappeared into a circular ripple, like a raindrop into a puddle. Morphing into a soft glow, they flashed across the string of mirrors and through the window as they escaped.

Well, that was three less problems she’d have to deal with. She had her doubts if Scudder was telling the complete truth, but then again if he wasn’t, Snart and Rory could take care of themselves.

“Detective,” Finch’s soft voice called to her. 

She turned, having forgotten he was there; the man that knew so much but kept her in the dark. “Finch. I don’t suppose you can travel through mirrors, or that you’d tell me if you could?” She wasn’t looking forward to going back out on the street—or trying to find the way out of this place.

He glanced at something off to the side, studied it for a few moments, then looked down, exhaustion suddenly plain upon his slight body. 

If these mirror places could be a trap, she wondered more about his own situation. Was he a prisoner of something she didn’t understand? She brushed that thought aside for now; aside from his frailty, she knew that his intellect was above anyone else’s she knew. If he was a prisoner, it wouldn’t be for long. 

Adjusting his glasses first, he then met her eyes and gave her a weak, somewhat dismal smile. “It appears my attempts to protect you from the truth have been futile.”

“Can you help get me out of here?”

“Of course, Detective. I cannot allow you to get captured and if that means I must tell you things, show you things — well, you won’t be in any higher risk than you are now. But come; this pocket dimension will collapse soon, and you’d best not be in it when it does. 

“Put your hands on the frame, close your eyes and think of a book whose imagery was so powerful, you were transported to another place or time — a story so compelling it is lodged forever in your soul. Think of that one scene so perfect it suspended time, then simply step forward.”

Where she might have dismissed the whole idea as ridiculous, she had just seen two men walk into a mirror. Stepping up, she placed her palms on the glass before her but instead of finding it cool and hard, the surface was warm and soft. 

The book he described sprang to mind immediately for it was one she reread when she felt that fighting the good fight might overwhelm her. She closed her eyes and thought of Atticus Finch in the courtroom, fighting for the life of an innocent man. Of how doing what was right — no matter how difficult or impossible — was the only way to be able to look yourself in the mirror every morning.

A brief chill coursed through her body like a shockwave and her mind went blank, but then she was through and standing in front of Finch. 

Her hands drifted downwards as she blinked her eyes rapidly in shock. Maybe a better choice of book might have been Alice in Wonderland because she had certainly just fallen through the rabbit hole.

Finch smiled warmly. “Detective, welcome to the Library. It is warded to only accept those who can treat a book right... by which I mean, can appreciate the point of a book, can glean pleasure from the experience of absorbing meaning from the words. Those who don't read, or who use reading only to acquire knowledge without any pleasure, are not welcome here and are redirected elsewhere." 

Something caught his eye behind her and a flash of exasperation crossed his face. 

She glanced over her shoulder and then did a double take at the strange little doll lounging with its legs crossed, on top of a thick, leather-bound book. While the soft, muslin body and the bright tuff of yellow yarn for hair might have been appealing to a child, the black button eyes that seemed to be staring right at her were downright unnerving. 

It raised its little hand and waved at her.

“Nathan!” Finch scolded, but his tone was soft with amusement.

Joss took in a deep cleansing breath. She was not going to be distracted by creepy dolls that could move on their own, ‘warded’ libraries or traveling through a mirror — which now, she just checked, was only reflecting her backside and not showing the loft she’d just left.

Whatever. No distractions. All business-like and determined, she set her hands on her hips and turned to face Finch.

“Finch, what they said about secret prisons where convicts are experimented on before they’re killed — is all of that true?”

“I’m afraid so, Detective. The Foundation pretends to offer prisoners a reduced sentence, but it’s a ruse; they need a steady supply of disposable people to test the anomalies they encounter. Their facilities are designed to prevent anomalous entities from escaping; it’s somewhat of a miracle that your acquaintances there managed to break free on their own.”

“Facilities,” she repeated thoughtfully, her fingers tapping the NYPD badge clipped to her belt. “As in more than one. 

“Right. Tell me everything I need to know about them. This has got to stop.” Men like Rory were judged, sentenced and did their time according to the law, and did not deserved to be experimented on and executed. 

“The Foundation is formidable. And I must warn you, if you challenge them, you may not survive.”

“That’s not a good enough reason not to try, Finch, and you know it.”

For a few moments he stared at her face like he wanted to memorize it, then cleared his throat as he visibly tapped down his emotions. “You are quite correct, Detective.” 

He limped towards the table with its pile of books and Nathan, the creepy doll. “We had best get started for there is much to learn if you are to be successful.”

“That’s better. I like the sound of that.” She would have knowledge, and not only would she have the support of Finch and Reese, she would also find allies in Snart and his crew when they came back to the city loaded for bear and determined to take down the same group.

She could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments make my day!


End file.
